Too Late
by Elenlor Edhelen
Summary: What if Fingon has come just one day later to save Maedhros? SLASH.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: This does not belong to me. I am not making money. All hail Tolkien!

A/N: This story begged to be written and once I got the first paragraph on paper, it imprinted itself on my brain. This is not a one shot, as I originally planned. Instead, it has turned into an epic. This is AU. Based on the idea, 'What might have happened if Fingon had come just one day later to save Maedhros?' It is written from Fingon's POV. Context clues and certain side-notes have left me sure that Tolkien intended the two to be together, and though you can think what you want, nothing on earth could convince me otherwise. So, this story is a pet of mine (I have five other things that need to be copied from my notebook, all written before this), hope you enjoy! Thus begins, Too Late. Thanks to my awesome, cough lazy cough beta! (Hey, Michelle!)

On the Elvish: I have shamelessly mixed Quenya and Sindarin to gain the maximum amount of words. I know some of it, but some of the stuff is dictionaries.

Warnings: AU, slash

Chapter 1: Too Late

I was too late. Too late. All I could do was hold his limp, emaciated frame and stroke his tangled crimson hair. I saw it. The wound. The one that took him away from me. What had he done to bring down the rage of Morgoth? How had my meleth-vanya caused his death? {beautiful love}

A ribbon of blood had trickled from his parched lips and dried on his once perfect face. How hard had the sword slammed into his abused flesh? How long had it taken him to die? He was all alone, there was no one to hold him and comfort him.. I felt tears begin to streak down my dirty face, but I just pressed his bloody form against my chest more closely.

'I will never see the light in his silver eyes, or hear him affectionately call me Findekano again. He will never kiss me again, I will never feel his soft lips against mine again. I will never see his silver eyes light up when I call him Almir...' Those were my only coherent thoughts. The Lord of Eagles sensed my pain and let me grieve.

I stroked his too pale face and begged him to wake up, "Maedhros, saes, Almir-Nin! Saes! Teli ata!" But he didn't. I'd lost him. {"Maedhros, please, my sparkling flame! Please! Come back!"}

I couldn't leave him there, but I wouldn't-couldn't maim his body. I wouldn't destroy the remains of his dignity. I will bring blacksmith's tools and take him away tomorrow. I didn't want to leave him, but I had to. "Namarie, meleth, I shall return on the morrow ." It took all my will power for me not to remove my cloak and wrap him in it, but I knew it would only lose me his body: The only thing I had left of him. I brushed my lips against his and forced myself to let him go, but as we flew, I could not force my eyes away from him until he was out of sight. In one more day I would bring the eldest Fëanorion to his crypt. So soon, too soon, he would really, truly be gone.

It had taken a long time to free my love from the steel clutches of Morgoth- but I had. I had slaved to get the shackle off- but I did. I had held him and wrapped his bruised, naked form in my cloak. We had flown and I clung to him possessively.

He was on the bed and I sat in the chair next to him. Maedhros looked much better now, he had been bathed, long crimson hair had been washed and brushed- it shone beautifully. Each wound had been stitched shut and formal garments adorned his slender form. Powder masked various cuts and bruises. My Almir just lay there in a parody of sleep, looking just as he did in life-but all the vibrant life was gone, and his amazing silver eyes were closed.

Maglor sat on the other side of his brother, the other five behind him. Maglor was always his favorite, seeing made it hurt more. Suddenly, I could not help it any more, my hands flew out to grasp his and the tears flowed. One seemingly distant day in the gardens of Lorien, when we had been let in, I had told him, "Where you go, I go also. I'll follow you into the darkest corner of Arda and beyond or the brightest. Your destination is mine." When I told him, his eyes lit up and he asked me "You promise?" and I said yes.

I will not break my oath to him. I'll bury him and bring him back. I'll got to the darkest corner of Arda and beyond and the brightest- And I'll bring him back.

A/N: So, hope you enjoyed the too short first chapter. Please review, as reviews put me in a writing high where I write a lot. So, review! My muses Amarth, Melme, and Saire eat them and use them to catch plot bunnies! So leave your compliments, comments, opinions, and constructive criticism at the button!


	2. I Wish

Disclaimer: It's not mine. Only the OC's are-but I don't know if I want them. . .

A/N: I know I royally screwed with Mandos, but I didn't feel like writing a total tragedy If I change my mind, I'll go back and write the scene out. That just came from the total need to include a dearly loved character in the story. am so sorry for the delay, but it has been caused by writer's block. . .And plus, it took Chelle like three weeks to beta. . .It's okay-Thanks for beta'ing Michelly. So, if anyone is still gonna read this-Here is the next chapter.

Doegred: Thank you for being the first to review this horrible little piece of work. Maybe it was. . .but I decided to write it with the waiting-It gave me a little more angst to play with. Thanks for telling me about the Silm. section. . .I would have sworn it wasn't there-but with my attention span. . .Here is the horribly late-but longer, next chapter.

Nindë: Thanks! It's always so nice to hear positive cements-So sorry for the lateness!

Sandra-isis: Thanks! Wow. . .Your grammar is amazing. . .I am glad you like this. Here is the longer, nut horribly late (sorry) continuation.

Insane Vampiress: Thank's for being a (mostly) awesome beta! I know this chapter was long-But get used to it-Not everyone's stuff is as short as Pixie Child's! And not everyone's is as good. . .But- Never mind that!

a random reader: Aww! That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me! I know I am weird but...Here is the next chapter, I hope you like it!

I Wish:

He had been mine. Mine to love and cherish. And I failed to protect him the way he'd never failed to protect me. We'd sworn oaths to each other, to help and protect one another. So many days we'd spent together, just being in love. So many things we'd said and done. I was the one that failed, and my mistake killed him. What a fool I had been to think he had abandoned me willingly. . . What an utter and complete fool.

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They are going to encase him in the cold, unloving stone. They are going to place the being I shared my heart with for so long where there are no stars to soothe absent soul or calm his un-beating heart. He must hate stone now, he was kept and killed chained against rock. He wouldn't want it this way. He would prefer fire. But I can't burn him, I need his body to bring him back.

There is a legend I shall investigate, one that maybe, just maybe, holds the key. If it doesn't, I'll find another way. I just wish he didn't await me in a bed of stone.

Why? Why did Morgoth kill him? Why did my fiery warrior die? In truth, I care more about bringing him back than finding out, but such thoughts are also in the forefront of my mind. The burial is to take place this night, the climax of all my suffering, the moment where it's at its worst. Then, he will really, truly be gone. But I promise it won't be for long. I can't let it be for long. I don't have too much time before I begin to fade. Only a goal and a dream stand between me and certain death.

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Why aren't I in purgatory? Is it for the suffering I knew in my last years of life? Have I faced my punishment alive? But I cannot understand what I did to deserve any happiness, let alone this much. I expected Mandos to be far different, especially for a slayer of kin. But it's all the things I ever loved in life. . .except for the one thing I loved the most.

The beauty of this spiritual realm is unimaginable. The sea breath comes forth from a far-off ocean I have yet to discover, the feasts never end, the archery range is the finest I am ever to see, the horses are grand– some as untamed as I have always loved them –the rivers are cool, the training fields perfect for one who has loved the precise tactics of swordplay. I can see so few flaws. But my time is given to a single place. A crystal clear pool to kneel in. And the waterfall that culminates in it to stare at.

Here, one can watch those they loved and left behind and whisper to them, though not all are the like that hear. Findekano doesn't. I think he's just too sensible to believe it is my voice on the wind and not his grief-filled delusions. I try anyway. I torture myself by watching him grieve, and try to make him hear my words of comfort.

"Findekano, all is well. You do not need to try to bring me back to you, your time will come to join me. I am as happy here as I can possibly be without you. I think I'm supposed to grieve according to one of our oaths, but this place. . .it prevents me. Unless I am watching you suffer, I can feel nothing but content." He doesn't hear me. It is so frustrating. I want his sensitive ears to perk at my voice the way they always did. So ignorant of him! I could put his mind at ease! Why won't he let me? Or maybe the Valar have realized the greatest punishment for me is to watch him hurt.

I miss him so, I wish I could tell him how to join me, but it is against a rule of sorts, the only one there is here for the unpunished. The unpunished, a group I cannot for the world grasp why I am part of. Why I am here, seeing my slightly distorted reflection in the rippling waters of the pool, and his fair face in the roaring waterfall, instead of suffering along with the evildoers whose cries we cannot hear.

My dearest brother Maglor hears me. His ears have always been the keenest; and his mind, heart, and soul the most open. He had spoken to me, telling me his woes and listening to mine as he always did. My best friend, my eldest younger brother. Maglor does not want to be head of the Feanorions, or High King! He hates telling others what to do, hates commanding armies, and hates being seen. The only time he does not mind peering eyes is when he plays his fair music, or sings the lays and hymns he writes himself, then he is oblivious to all. What a spectacle it would be, the High King singing his orders as opposed to phrasing them! I so do wish I could help him, but I was always the reckless one– not the wise one.

"Oh my dearest Findekano, I so wish you would listen, listen and not do the reckless deed I know soon shall follow. How I wish you would be wise for once, my love."

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I wish I could have saved him. Perhaps that is impossible, then, I wish I could have eased his death. I wish I could have held him, and taken the weight of his too-slim body off his aching shoulder. I wish I could have wiped the blood from his perfect face, and pushed the tangled hair from his dimming silver eyes. I wish I could have stroked those matted crimson locks and I wish. . .I could have kissed him good-bye, and whispered a final farewell into the elegantly pointed ear of the being who owned my heart.

But to save him. . .to save him is, was, and will continue to dance through all my dreams. He would now be recovering, and I would see to his every wish. He would be cared for by the healers, and by. . .me. I so do wish my Maitimo was not really, truly gone. I wish I could help him heal, hold him when the pain grew too great to bear, and stroke his crimson hair while he slept.

Now he sleeps eternal. But his silver eyes are so mournfully closed, and the grief of lonely death marks his noble face instead of peace. I cannot let him sleep like this forever, as in endless nightmares, "My Maitimo, sleep until I wake you. If only I knew how. . .if only."

They've come! They've come to bear the body, the only thing I've left, of the being my heart will always belong to, away! They are going to lay him to rest in the cool, dark of the crypt his father would lay in had his spirit allowed it. Feanor had believed he wanted to be buried in the likelihood that he would die in this war-torn world, but the depths of his fiery soul had refused. The body that housed such fire could only be ended in fire. But the crypt remains, built to house Feanor and all of his kin, it shall now house his heir, his prized eldest son. The eldest son that was dear to so many others. The beautiful elf that burned with a fire so like his father's, just gentler. A more forgiving flame. Yet one still so very dangerous if sparked.

His brothers are all here, dressed in the black of mourning, and my dear sister Aredhel has come as well. I do not wish my younger sister to see me in such a state! And yet, her silver-garbed visage is somewhat comforting, for in times of mourning she dons not black– but shimmering silver silk. She is as radiant as the Maiar of old, legends of whom she takes great joy in retelling. I recall her favorite, a tale of a Maia whom we have met and glimpsed, and the death of whose lover we witnessed and are by her blamed for. The legend that I with all my heart believe. I hear the voice of our White Lady as she told it to me, the way I always seem to when I think of a story she told to me. I seize the chance for escape and fall into the tale she retold.

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"In the mountains high there lies a lady who hides herself from the world. In her days of greatness, she was a Maia of power, and served the Valie Yavanna and the Vala Mandos. The Lady of All Things That Grow was fond of her, as she ever thirsted to learn more of the growing things that her Lady had created. In this great fondness, Yavanna bestowed upon her great knowledge, and a name, Calenwen, the Green Maiden. But created by song she was Hithwen, the Maiden of the Mist. And like mist she was, hidden in the shadows and cloaked in emerald. True she was in service, but truer still in love. Love that proved to be her downfall.

"Her beloved was fair among the Noldor, and proud as is our way. And when the trees were killed, Finwe our high king slain, and the proud Silmarils stolen, he followed not the newly crowned Feanor– but the Prince Finrod into exile. For he was proud among even for our like, and as the lord he now followed, the need for vengeance ran too deep for true love to stay. And she, Calenwen as she was at that time called, was so torn between great loyalty and great love that she grew ill as no Maia ever has or ever will.

"A dark sleep fell upon her, and in dreams she remembered things she'd thought insignificant in the past. Spells, omens, plants. . .among them was the white flower lothanna, one her Lady had made in jest and come to love. A truer gift there has never been, for when its power is employed by one who loves truly, lost life shall be returned to the one who holds their heart. And before she woke, the silver eyes of her beloved flashed in her mind, filled with terror, surrounded by copper hair that floated in swiftly moving water. Her waking scream echoed through the gardens of Lorien where she lay, tended by Maiar who held her a friend, 'Carandae, my heart! Beware the ice!'

"With horror she woke, frantic in her cries, 'I cannot feel him! 'Twas not a simple dream! The shadow upon his name has claimed him!'

"The Maia-ladies around her simply gazed at her sorrowfully, no words needed to speak of the doom that had befallen Carandae. Silent it was, until the Green Maiden spoke, coldly as she never had, 'So the prophetic nature of the mother-name has failed not. The red shadow, interpret it as you will. The shadow of blood that lay upon him, or the shadow of death that hung o'er his crimson head. Doomed either way! Dead either way!' Despairing wails now, grief abounding, 'A fool I was to think a mother could bestow upon him such a name for crimson hair and elven grace!' More bitterness. More grief.

"'Calenwen-' a maiden among the ladies that stood around her began, only to be interrupted by the lady in question.

"'Hithwen!' she shrilly cried, 'No longer Calenwen, the lover who was happy beneath the two trees, her hearts only desire by her side. Hithwen! The maiden of loneliness, the maiden of quiet servitude I was before I met him! Now I am Hithwen! The lady who stays hidden by mist, the lady who is cold, and shrill, and angry, and fuming, and heartless! The Lady of Grief! The Maiden of Mist! The Harbouror of Hate! She Who Hides! She Who Weeps Alone! She Who Screams! Not the Green Maiden! _Not _happy,_ not _at peace! _Alone_!-'

"Quite suddenly, the bone chilling screams were broken by the cool voice of a superior being, and the hapless circle around her broken by unending grace. The Valar Queen Yavanna slipped through the crowd, a single white flower in her pale hands. Green eyes fell upon the blossom, and the abandoned golden-haired body fell upon the ground.

"Her spirit floated to Helkaraxe, and there she created a new form, fitting of new grief and new name alike. Hair like snow, skin barely darker, but the same emerald eyes. Always the same emerald eyes. And with old power, she forced a white flower to break through the ice and snow. Slender fingers plucked it, and tore off each petal, letting them fly away on the icy winds. Ice water bubbled as newly breathing lungs sucked in, searching for air, and then tried to force immense amounts of water out. Blood floated to the surface and froze in a thin sheen of ice.

"An anguished scream tore through the frozen silence as Hithwen fell to her knees, letting the ice chill bare skin. White fists beat the prison of ice that trapped the body of the creature she'd given her heart to. Mandos would not let him return. And suddenly she knew. Kinslaying. The extent of how far the elves had gone to escaped the blessed realm. A cry of rage.

"Finwe's house. They. They'd led the gentlest being she'd known to icy, lonely death. They'd soiled hands meant for the strings of a harp with blood. They'd killed him! All of them! The Feanorions, the Fingolfinions, the Finarfinions! They all did it. '_Curse them! Curse them to suffer the way I do! Curse them to feel the kind of loss I feel! Curse them all!_' She Who Screams did so, until she could scream no more. Little did she know, how many already grieved, and how many her curse would affect.

"Clad in nothing but her ivory hair, she fled deep into the mountains. She hides there still. To watch the world. To see her curse fulfilled. To grieve in peace. She lingers there now, in a dwelling she created, harboring her hate as she always will. For the lover that was lost cannot be regained. And the light of the Maiar when dimmed is never to be rekindled. Though love can spark the flame again, when that love is lost– that light is lost also.

"Forever she shall stay in her mountain, never leaving until the last of her light is lost and she is as wicked as the Dark Enemy. But she shall serve no master save herself. And never shall she love again, even when he– her precious Carandae –returns. By then, her heart shall live no more. And her hate and want for vengeance will be all she knows.

"The years have been few and already hate takes its dark toll

It's fiery black tongue laps at the blood of her soul

"And each place it touches turns black with rage

Unwise it is to approach her, or her anger to gage

"Let her suffer alone, though cruel it may seem

For here endeth her tale, her love, and her dream

"Maybe it will continue someday, and tell of blackest hate

What she will do, when she is more dark and irrate.

"I do not know now, but someday I will

And when all she hates die– maybe her anger will still

"But unlikely it is, and so she'll go on

Like a Maia– but with all the light gone."

TBC...

A/N: Sorry, once again for the delay. I hope you enjoy this, and I would be all the quicker in the writing of the next chapter if you were to review.


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